Welcome to the Misadventures of Widowhood blog!

In January of 2012 my soul mate of 42 years passed away after nearly 12 years of living with severe disabilities due to a stroke. I survived the first year after Don’s death doing what most widows do---trying to make sense of my world turned upside down. The pain and heartache of loss, my dark humor, my sweetest memories and, yes, even my pity parties are well documented in this blog.

Now that I’m a "seasoned widow" the focus of my writing has changed. I’m still a widow looking through that lens but I’m also a woman searching for contentment, friends and a voice in my restless world. Some people say I have a quirky sense of humor that shows up from time to time in this blog. Others say I make some keen observations about life and growing older. I say I just write about whatever passes through my days---the good, bad and the ugly. Comments welcome and encouraged. Let's get a dialogue going! Jean

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

I hate to admit this but the more I purge stuff in the
garage, the more I eat. Comfort foods have been my down fall since---well, it’s
all my mother’s fault and don’t we all know it---which means its back to diet
rehab I go. For me, that means tracking every single thing that goes in my
mouth. I do my tracking at Everyday
Health but there are other websites that care about your calorie intake and
will “yell” at you when you go over that they say you need. When my eating gets
out of control, it’s the only thing that is successful in pulling me back. I
track for a few days without making any changes just to prove what I already
know---that I truly am out of control---before I start cutting back to the
1,000 calories they say I need. Breakfast: Protein shake 230 calories, ½ cup of
blueberries 43, cream in my coffee 35. Yup, it’s not even noon and already I’m
35 calories into Bad Girl Land.

Purging stress aside, sorting Don’s stuff in the garage can
be entertaining at times. He was Mr. Disorganized and he loved tiny items
(think things under the size of a pack of cigarettes) and when he’d come home
from a flea market or antique mall, he’d throw his little treasures in plastic shoe
boxes with no rhyme or reason for what he threw in together. When a box was
full, he’d get another one started. Last night in front of the TV I sorted a
box and I found a rolled-up bumper sticker that read: “Honk if You Slept With
Clinton.” That made me laugh right out loud. But the most fascinating thing I found was a gold,
telescoping mechanical pencil the size of a sewing thimble when it was closed
and six inches long when it was open. I spent some time speculating it was designed
for a spy to use to write down the launch codes to a missile in France that was
aimed at Russia. I tested a few other scenarios because every object in Don’s ‘treasure boxes’ has a story to tell but
this one is being very closed-lipped about its past adventures. I tried to
research telescoping pencils but all I got was jealous because I found one with
a built-in ruler on the side. Still, mine should go for between $45 and $110 on
e-Bay, if past sales are any indication.

I got a much needed haircut on Monday. I can’t believe that
since last winter I went from worrying I’d be bald in a year to having too much
hair by the end of July---thank you thyroid meds for putting an end to my
nasty hair loss trend. My hairdresser actually did some thinning of my hair and
that hasn’t happened in a long time. If I had jet black hair, the asymmetrical
pixie cut she gave me would look totally Gothic, bangs cut short on one side
and going long by the time they get to the opposite side ear. Some ironing
required. I love to iron my hair; it’s a newly acquired skill. I’ve got
naturally curly hair so I’m fascinated that with a little “spray starch” and
heat I can be Gothic straight and spiky. At least in the front where I can
reach.

Tuesday the senior hall had its annual ice cream social
compliments of a local dairy that donates their products. I don’t even want to talk
about what Everyday Health thought
about that indiscretion in Bad Girl Land. Ice cream is a big-time comfort food
in my Book of Sins and it’s one of the reasons I’m at Everyday Health again. Yes, I confess I recently discovered Breyers
Tiramisu Gelato. Good-bye, Gelato! We had
a lovely love affair while it lasted. That will be ten Hail Mary’s and a
salad.

Anyway, at the ice cream social the same three piece band
played as last year. Think Grizzly Adams on the keyboard, Don Knotts on the
drums and an emaciated Bob Hope on the guitar. The lead singer told that same
old people jokes as last year and I’m pretty sure they played all the same
songs as well. It didn’t matter. Their Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra, Michael
Buble`, Elvis, and Johnny Cash were well done and the southern gospel they
mixed in were all well-received sing-alongs.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Time is flying by so fast. It’s almost August and there are
so many things I haven’t done, yet, this summer. I haven’t even taken the dog
to the dog park or walked him on the nature trail. What kind of a dog
mother does that make me? Neglectful might apply, although in my defense there's been some serious swarms of bees attacking dogs at the park and I'm allergic to bees. I did buy him one of those
interactive brain stimulating treat dispensers but I took it back. Levi couldn't figure it out. He’s smart enough to remember which window
to sit by, at what time of the day to see the rabbits go about their daily
routine but flipping a series of switches with his nose to get a treat was like rocket
science to him.

This summer I also haven’t gotten my windows washed or
sat on the deck drawing. Most of my unscheduled
time is spent either debating on my favorite political forum, watching reruns
of The Big Bang Theory or getting
things sorted to haul off to the Salvation Army or the auction house. I’m doing
some serious purging in the garage but it’s mentally hard. Yesterday I went through a
box labeled, “Sort Later.” It’s been waiting for ‘later’ for 14 years and it
turned out to be paperwork that came out of Don’s desk before we moved. I was
tempted to just dump it all sight unseen but I’m glad I didn’t. Some of those
papers had social security numbers on them of people who worked for him, not
something you want blowing around the landfill. I also found a folder of things
I had given to Don---greeting cards, letters and a Mickey Mouse poster with these words
written in pencil on the back: “To Don, Fifty years from now this poster will
be worth a lot more than I paid for it and since I’ve been listening to Bruce
Williams, I’m turning on to investing.So, I’ve decided to buy this instead of a regular Valentine’s Day card.
I expect to still be in your life 50 years from now to help reap the profits.
Love, Jean” Those words were written 35 years ago and they are a perfect example of
why this kind of ‘widow’s work’ is hard on your emotions.

I got a call from the-son-I-wish-I-had last night who wanted to use
me as a sounding board. He’d given his business card to an 85 year old lady along with
an estimate to tear down her garage that was in bad repair. When he left this
stranger with the estimate he said, “Call if I can help.” A few months went by
and she called him yesterday. She needed help and could he come right over. It
seemed she was having a health issue and wanted a ride to the hospital! Turned out
she lived in a hoarder’s style house with pathways everywhere. (Her water was
shut off six years ago and she’s been carrying water to flush her toilet, etc.) She
didn’t have any family or friends and she didn’t want him to call an ambulance.
Long story short, he took her to the hospital and now she wants him to help her
get her legal, medical and housing affairs in order. She claims to have money
in the bank and seemed, to him, to be talking rational as opposed to having
dementia. I know one thing for sure, she’s rational enough to pick out a good,
honest and caring stranger to ask to help her. Can you imagine having that
problem/moral dilemma dropped in your lap? Can you imagine what a dishonest
scammer could do to an elderly woman like that? When my friend left the woman at the hospital he asked her if he could give her a hug. She beamed
and said, “Yes, I haven’t had one since my husband died eight years ago.”

After that conversation I went back out to the garage to
work on my purging but with a pit in my stomach. I do not have a hoarder’s
house. I could get two cars in my garage, you could put a couple of bowling
lanes in my basement and the inside of my house is clutter-free. But that
conversation brought it home how important it is to keep on
downsizing before I move to a smaller place. I have another childless friend
who is dangerously on the edge of ending up like that woman described above. Since his mother
died 4-5 years ago and he moved her stuff into his house “to sort” he’s had a
hoarder’s house and his health is failing fast.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Three of my husband’s oldest and dearest friends were in
town this week and we all met at the Sculpture Park. They were killing two
birds with one stone---seeing me and the new Japanese garden at the same time.
I didn’t mind. It was a sunny day at a beautiful setting that is ranked in the
top 100 most-visited art museums in the world and three of us are arty-farty
types. Before we explored the new Japanese addition, we took a half hour, narrated
tram ride around the 158 acres that took us past many of the 200 permanent
pieces in the park. I’ve been on the tram many times but it was only my third
time going to the 8 ½ acre Japanese addition.

Once inside the gates to the Japanese Gardens, we found a private ‘alcove’ near the Zen garden that overlooks
the lake and the zig-zag bridge and we sat on polished marble bounders talking about the
good times we’ve had over the years. And there have been many. Parties, vacations,
raft races and just a hanging out over pizza. Don and these three had been friends since
junior high and even though two of them haven’t lived here for thirty years they’ve
all stayed close. I feel honored that after Don died they still include
me on their ‘must see’ list when they come up from Georgia. And it’s always fun
to be with people who knew my husband before his stroke. Knowing Don is like shorthand
for knowing me. Unfortunately, there aren’t many people left in their families
to bring them back to town, so I couldn’t help feeling like this might be the
last time I’ll see them. Ohmygod, taking in our physical conditions---one guy
in a wheelchair, the other woman badly needing a hip replacement, her husband
fighting cancer and me with my snow white hair and old-lady sweater in the
summer---one of us might not be alive same time, next year.

Seeing these people every summer for so many years it can’t help
but remind me of the 1951 movie with Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn, titled Same Time, Next Year. They played a couple
who for over twenty-five years would met once a year for a romantic tryst and along the way they managed to develop an emotional
depth they hadn’t expected. Not sure if it would work that way in real life for
lovers, what with the guilt thing and suspicious spouses getting in the way,
but I know for a fact that for life-long friends emotional depth can be
maintained long-distance.

Paul McCartney once wrote:

Must we wait another year

For the celebration, dear?

If we do, we’ll hold it here,

Same time next year.

I'll be here, the same as ever,

Maybe wearing something else.

Ah, but nothing changes,

Ah but nothing changes.

Wrong, Paul! Everything changes from year to year, especially
once you get past seventy. Sometimes it’s even hard to recognize people who’ve
been in your life for decades. But I know what he meant. The warm
feelings don’t change. The love and respect doesn’t change. But the melancholy of
saying goodbye hits you harder when you get older, knowing that a wonderful
afternoon like I had this week could be our last one together. At least until
one of us dies. We all have cemetery plots right next door. It tickled my
husband’s sense of humor to think about being neighbors in death.

After spending three hours at the park the four us went
to a restaurant/bar in my adopted hometown. The others have been going there since
their teens and a trip to Michigan always includes a pilgrimage to eat their “famous”
hot dogs that aren’t that good in my book. But you don’t mess with an iconic
place so deeply engrained in someone’s mind. Like I told them when they asked
about the other hot dog place in town and I said, “Their dogs are better but
you guys don’t come here for the food. It’s the memory triggers of this place
that makes it special.”